Absolution
by MinkeOR
Summary: Life is never quite the way we plan it, a concept familiar to James Barnes and Alina Horowitz, and despite the turns, they have managed a kind of peace after the tumultuous events that brought them together. But when their new life is thrown into chaos, how far will they go to save themselves and their family? (Follows 'Retrograde'.)
1. Chapter 1

_Thumping_. That's the best word I have to describe the incessant beats against my insides. We've moved past the flutters and the swoops and are firmly in the phase of the thumps. They come before the wallops, thank goodness, but I know that it won't be long before the thumps are a distant memory of gentleness compared to the hard hitting wallops that will assail my internal organs. Owen was the same way, and at least I am not surprised by it this time around. What does surprise me is the frequency with which I am awoken by the thumps. This time around I am not able to maintain an even remotely normal sleep schedule, as my sleep is interrupted by my unborn baby several times a night.

I roll myself over to face the bare back of James Buchanan Barnes, who is still sleeping soundly and blissfully unaware of my current wakefulness. He's lying on his right side, his breaths come steady and deep and are accompanied by a gentle whir of clicks as gears turn slowly, almost methodically, while his metal arm is at rest. I scooch closer to him and the light scent of hydraulic fluid and oil mingles with the more musky smell of a man whose days are spent caring for a property and for his son after the child gets out of school. The way he smells is as familiar to me as anything I've ever known.

We've shared this bed for three years, integrating him in the life I'd built with our son, Owen, and after six years since I first came here, the property in the shadow of the mountains is more ours than not. I finally coaxed a small garden to eventually take root with the help of our neighbor, Maggie, and a small tabby cat joined the family last year when Owen begged for a pet. She spends most of her time outside, keeping the mouse population in check.

This time it wasn't a surprise when I fell pregnant. James began dropping hints a year and a half ago, saying how he'd always wondered what I looked like carrying Owen, that I was probably radiant.

"Yeah," I'd laughed. "Like a radiant planet."

He stayed quiet about it for a little while, but pretty soon the questions would trickle in more frequently, and then the discussions followed. We talked at length about whether we'd ever want another child, whether it was still safe enough to do this again, and when the hypotheticals turned into serious details, I knew that we were deciding to go down the road.

I sigh in the tiny frustration when the thumps hit my abdominal wall, a steady rhythm that rolls me over onto my other side and towards the man who sleeps beside me. I trail my fingertips up his side and receive a shudder in response. If I can't sleep then neither will he. It's mean, I know this, but I want his company since it was missed the first time around.

When James moans from being pulled suddenly from his dreams the noise slips into me like thick, warm syrup and spreads through me to unexpected places.

"Your baby is awake," I murmur into his back, pressing my lips against his warm skin. I measure my body against his, molding it to fit but the convex curve of my growing belly prevents me from being a true 'big spoon'. The strong kicks continue to beat at the place where my bump meets the small of his back.

"How come it's only 'my child' when it wakes you up, Al?" he says, but there is a gentle jest in his voice and the nickname he calls me. He rolls over and puts a warm hand on me. He's unable to contain the grin that splits his face when the baby thumps his palm.

"Because you did this to me," I say and press a kiss to him.

"And I'd do it again," he replies. He inches closer for another kiss and a heat rises in my body.

"We'll see about that," I say. "I'm not sure I'll let you put me through this again." I bite his lower lip and he smiles again, laughing a little when I grab the sensitive skin. Things escalate quickly and we are a sleepy haze of caresses and drawn together limbs and lips.

"You didn't seem to mind it," he says between caught breaths against my hot skin. I want to devour every part of him that I can lay my hands on and my fingers find their way beneath fabric and elicit a low laugh from him.

But before we can strip away the sleeping clothes, a small knock on our door interrupts our rush of hormones and desires, followed by a little voice.

"Momma?" Owen calls and the door cracks open just slightly. James, whose breaths still come quick and heavy, flips onto his stomach and brings a wandering hand to rest on a more chaste area of my body.

"Come on in, Punkin," I call and sit up slightly to see Owen ease himself into the room. He's rubbing sleep from his eyes and his alligator is tucked under his arm. I reach out for him. Despite being in the first grade and often declaring his independence, there are still times like these when he wants us.

"I had a bad dream," he says. He crawls up onto the bed and wriggles into the space between James and I. James loops an arm around his son and I settle myself down again to watch the two of them work out the nightmare together. There are still times when James will wake up covered in sweat and stay up half the night trying to chase the memories from the backs of his eyes. But I know that he grounds himself in the quiet of our house and will visit our slumbering son, just to remind himself where he is.

Owen tells us about the dream, and while James is absorbed in the task I rub my hand up and down my belly and then run it over Owen's back, soothing him and I can hear it in his voice when he starts to drift off to sleep again. James reaches over the boy and puts his hand back on the bump and receives strong thumps in response. A wave of contentment rushes through me at the four of us being connected in the moment. It overwhelms me.

I will pay with a day of extraordinary tiredness. A day where my head rests in my hand more often than I would like and I take a quick nap in my office instead of working on dictations. But there is a soccer game this afternoon that I am needed at, and the demands of my working schedule seem less and less important as the time for leaving draws near. I've cut back my hours at the clinic, letting the other docs take the load and have discussed the plans to step down to part-time after maternity leave with the supervisors.

I leave early and drive to the park where the game will be, meeting James in the parking lot who is fielding a soccer ball with Owen beside the car. He's got the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to the elbows, unbuttoned to reveal the white t-shirt underneath and his metal arm flashes in the mid-autumn sun. The story was easy enough to pass off, that it's part of a government program of new types of prosthetics for veterans, and in a town this size we only had to convince a few influential people of the story and everyone else followed suit. The strange looks and whispers have died down, and most accept that it's just a part of him.

James carries two folding chairs and we follow Owen to the field where the rest of his team is "warming up" for their game. When six-year olds play soccer, there isn't a whole lot of real play going on. Mostly we will spend the next hour or so watching a huddle of them chase the ball around the field while a good-natured referee tries to make sense of who actually has control over the ball and who doesn't. I don't envy his job, but it is entertaining to watch the pack move along as one. Owen has perfected his toning down of his strengths, running at the speed of the other kids and letting others kick goals. There have been times though when he's gotten carried away and launched the ball from halfway down the field to sail into the goal.

"I got a call from the doctor today," I say to James, who actually spends very little time in his chair, preferring to pace and cheer whenever the pack gets close to either goal. He turns towards me and his brows are knit together in concern. I forget how new this is to him.

"What did they want?" he asks.

"Just to schedule the cesarean," I reply, keeping my tone light. "I wanted to run it by you though to make sure that you had blocked off a chunk of time with Steve so that you could be home."

"Right," he says, running a hand through his hair and reminding me so much of a young Paul Newman.

Every so often there are requests from Steve for James to come along on missions that take him away for a week or so at a time. But we both know that he could never turn down the requests. I endure these, knowing that Steve is just as much a part of our family and that there will always be loyalty and affection between the two of them that I should never get in the way of. But we had agreed that James would stay for the birth and for the duration of my leave. I didn't need to be worrying about him on top of the stress of a newborn.

"He knows I need that time," he assures me and comes to sit, the worry in his brows still there.

"Are they sure it's normal?" he says offhandedly, breaking out the conversation that has clearly been going through his head. "To go automatically to the surgery for the second baby? You don't even get to try?"

"Yes," I say reassuringly. "It's what is safest for me and for this one." I press my hands on the spot where the baby is and give it a scratch. As is it's habit it stays quiet during the day.

"And you're okay with that?"

"I have to be. But yes, I'm okay with it as long as you're there with me this time."

The look on his face is excitement mixed with fear, a look he had the first few days after choosing to stay with us those years ago, and I take his hand and give it a squeeze to let him know that there isn't anything to worry about. We will make it through together, the same way we've handled everything else that's come our way.

Something at the end of the field catches my eye, a man in a baseball cap pulled low over his face is striding our way, shoulders hunched and his hands buried deep in his pockets. I can see him over James' shoulder and he turns around to see what I'm focused on when he notices my gaze drifting.

"The hell?" he lets out as the man approaches us and we catch a blonde haired, blue eyed smirk under the cap. It catches me so far off guard that I let myself fall back into the chair and I shake my head.

"Steve," James says to his friend, who reaches out a hand and the two embrace quickly and pound each other on the back, their usual greeting and goodbye combined into one gesture.

"Hey, Buck," Steve says and I just give him a weak wave. Whatever has brought him unannounced to our corner of the country can't be good. And sure enough his words don't do anything to soothe me.

"We have a problem," he says, keeping his voice low and glancing around as he talks. James swallows hard and his jaw clenches.

A _problem_. Nothing good ever came from that word and in my chest a long forgotten fear begins to stir, raising it's head slowly and stretching out to my limbs. I reach for James' hand, but he's out of my reach and I strain so far but can just barely graze the tips of my fingers on his wrist. He turns to look down at me and when his eyes meet mine their expression causes the fear to drop all the way to my feet and I have to look away.

The pack of kids runs by us, chasing after the ball and I lock on to Owen's smiling face, rushing after his friends and blissfully unaware of the gears already in motion to rip his world out from underneath him.

I have to protect him.

I have to protect us.


	2. Chapter 2

Warm water, cold tub, and a humming boy. I lean against the back wall and sink myself into the moment, enjoying the very normal task of Owen's bath time. I push down the thought that it could be the last one that we have and try not to think about the coming conversations about why Steve had shown up. Whatever the men were talking about downstairs could wait until I was done putting Owen to bed for the night.

"Momma," Owen says. "How long is Unc staying?" He pushes a layer of bubbles around the surface of his bathwater, drawing little paths through the foam and then smoothing it all out again with his palms to start over. He keeps his back to me and I trace lazy circles in the water with my fingertips. Owen started calling Steve just plain 'Unc' when he was three. Whether the nickname had started from not being able to get out every syllable or just from excitement, it had stuck.

"I don't know, Punkin," I reply. I'm sitting on the woven mat on the floor next to the tub with one hand resting on my belly and my feet stretched out in front of me, comfortable for the moment. "We didn't even know he was coming. Uncle Steve is full of surprises."

"I wish he could stay for a long time," he continues, still pushing and smoothing the bubbles. "And that Poppa stays for a long time."

"You just want everyone to stay," I tease him. I shift my hips a little and change sitting position, pulling my legs up and crossing them to tuck my feet under myself.

"And you can stay, and baby can stay," he declares with an air of finality, like he's settled a rather important matter before he dumps a small, plastic pail of water over his head.

"Well, that's good news," I laugh. "Baby is glad that you're going to let them stay." A series of kicks is the response from deep inside me. Something about what Owen said is needling me though, and I decide to indulge my curiosity.

"Why do you say that Poppa can stay? Isn't he always with us?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

"Sometimes he goes away with Unc," Owen says matter of factly. "I don't want him to go."

"But he always comes back."

"I don't like it when he leaves. I get sad and I wish he would just stay."

"It makes me sad, too," I admit. "But he always tries his best to come home. He'd much rather be with you than anywhere else." Time for redirection.

"Come on, Punk, time to get out," I pull myself up off the floor with some difficulty, my lower back protesting at the movement. Aches and pains are more and more common the further I get into the pregnancy, and though I can ride them out a little easier with James' soothing hands, there are still days when I feel like the fast growing child inside me will rip me apart.

Story time follows bath time, and tonight we decide on a book about what happens if you give a mouse a cookie. It is an old favorite. A tight feeling rises in my throat while Owen works his way through the book. There are parts where he goes slow, and others that he can sail over the words and has them, but I have learned patience enough to know when to step in and help and when to let him work out the sounds on his own.

I stay with him in the dark room until he falls asleep, tracing lines on his forehead and humming songs that I remember my mother singing when I was a child. When he's lost to the world, I kiss him and tuck the blankets around him and his alligator, leaving on soft feet and closing the door with barely an audible click. Kitty is waiting for me in the hallway and rubs my ankles looking for attention. James must have let her inside for the night, a warm respite from the chilly air that waits beyond the walls. She follows me when I go downstairs, purring when she sprints ahead to the kitchen.

James and Steve are still at the kitchen table where we'd all sat having a somewhat awkward dinner, their faces a strange amalgamation of calm that is barely masking the trouble beneath. Whatever it is they've been discussing, I can tell that it was halted when they'd heard my footsteps on the stairs. The air is still heavy with their words. I don't often see the two of them together, only on holidays that Steve can make it out for. It's easy to forget where they came from, how they came to be here, but when they are together I can see the oldest parts of their lives together coming back in their brotherly teasing and the easy way they laugh together.

I take my time in the kitchen, enjoying making them wait for me to settle with them and I make myself a cup of tea to quiet my stomach and ease myself into my night routine. They will have to wait until I am ready.

When I sit down at the table, I set my mug in front of me resolutely and wrap my fingers around it. I need to feel steady and the warmth from the tea is the perfect salve on my frazzled self.

"So," I say. "which one of you wants to go first."

The two exchange a look and a flash of brief guilt passes over James' eyes. I recognize it instantly and think that maybe the same thing happened with Steve, but I don't know the nuances of his baby blues enough to be able to tell what microexpressions twist and turn them. Clearly he has been holding out on me, but I can't blame him because I have intentionally abstained from asking him for any details regarding the missions he's gone on. I stick to my guns about not wanting to know too much, in the interest of safety.

This time seems different.

"We need to go back to New York," James says, his voice quiet.

"Why," I ask, maintaining an even tone despite the rush of annoyance I feel. Weren't we just discussing a few hours ago the importance of him sticking around? Wasn't that a conversation that he had been a part of?

"Something has come up," This time it's Steve interjecting, and the corner of his mouth turns up slightly at the ordinariness of the statement, and I can tell that what he's going to tell me has to do with _the problem_.

"We've been working on HYDRA for a while now," he continues. "And we've gotten very close to their lead operative, but every time he just seems to slip through our grasp. For awhile there have been whispers, rumors amongst the scattered members that something big was going to happen, but we could never really get our hands on what it was. The ones we captured never really had any clue and we got so many different stories that it seemed like it was just one of those things that people talk about but never happens."

"So what changed?" I say. "Because you wouldn't be here unless something has."

"We finally caught someone worth catching," Steve says. "And now it's worth our time to listen to what they have to say."

My eyes go back and forth from Steve to James, who has been steadfastly looking at the table while his friend talked. I wonder what he's thinking and find it difficult to really guess because it could be a myriad of memories that are pushing for his attention or it could just be that he knows how much I hate leaving. What I catch at the corners of his eyes and the slight upturn and scrunch of his brows, what's written in the set line of his mouth, is a fear that I recognize from when his most violent and terrible memories would start to rise and threaten to take him from us. Fear is what is on his face and it makes me feel cold despite the tea.

"You're afraid for us," I say quietly to James and cover his hand with mine. He laces our fingers together and there's relief in his eyes when he looks at me. I don't know exactly what this will all mean for us, but if it elicits such a response in him then I should trust them. He nods. I let out my breath in a long sigh.

"We have to go," he says again, gentle, and runs his thumb along my knuckles, soothing me. I nod.

"Is it really that bad?" I say to Steve, whose eyes and smile confirm what James says. "Who is it?"

"Her name is Morgan le Fay," Steve says. It confuses me.

"I don't know that name," I say. "What does she have to do with HYDRA?"

"She has…..skills," Steve says, but the way he says it makes me wary. "Part of the reason it's such a problem is that it doesn't make any sense for her to be working with HYDRA."

"When we don't know who is the enemy, it's time to circle back and regroup," James says. "That's why we have to go. All of us. We'll take care of business, and be back before you know it."

I don't like the way this feels in my chest, but I don't see what choice I really have in the matter. I trust both of them with my life and they have never done anything that wasn't in our best interest. Still, I don't like it when I feel like I don't have options, that I'm being forced into a certain mode of action, but again I just have to trust these two that this is the best thing.

"Well," I say, my voice losing some of it's strength as a weight comes down on my shoulders. "If we have to, then we have to. I can't keep the rest of the world safe, but whatever I can do to protect this little family then I'll do it."

"It won't be forever," James says quickly and I just shake my head at him and he stops talking.

"I trust you," I say and take my hand back from him. I stand up and grip my mug, trying to keep my hands occupied or else they will go straight to cradling the unborn baby. I don't need to unconsciously remind them what else is at stake in this. But then again, it's impossible to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you being serious?" I say.

James' face drops slightly and he makes an affronted noise like I've wounded him.

"What?" he replies. "I thought it was good."

"Sure," I joke. "If you really like dead presidents."

"You don't like 'Grant Buchanan'?" he presses. We're sitting across from each other in the upscale fuselage of one of Tony Stark's lear jets, on loan to Steve for the express purpose of ferrying us back to the city with haste. These planes are nicer than most everything I've ever traveled in and I make the crack at Owen not to get used to it. He seems overwhelmed by the excitement of a surprise trip and getting to go along with Poppa and Unc that my comments barely registered with him.

Steve and Owen have settled themselves in another pair of facing chairs and are currently engrossed in a game of 'Go Fish'. Steve is being thoroughly trounced by Owen, but I can't tell whether he's letting the kid win or not.

"Love," I say gently, "that's such a mouthful of a name, can you imagine what the other kids would call a kid with that name?"

He smiles at this and laughs a little.

"See, in my day you never thought about things like that," he says. "You just named a baby and that was that." He waves a hand and settles back into his chair, resting his head in his hand while one of his feet plays with one of mine.

I lean back into the soft leather of the airplane seat, enjoying the way it cradles me, and shake my head at the seemingly harmless comment. _This was so much easier when it was just me, _I think to myself but have the good sense to keep the comment to myself. We've been flying for almost two hours and still have another three to go and I give a silent thanks at having the ability to 'move about the cabin' as much as I see fit when it becomes unbearable to sit any longer.

It had been a hectic morning of packing, calling my boss and explaining that a family emergency was calling us away for a period of time. Having never taken a significant amount of time away from the clinic in the last five years of working there she told me to take all the time I needed. I assured her I wouldn't be gone that long. Owen's school could be dealt with on Monday with a simple phone-call. I'd packed all his workbooks and reading lists and could be emailed spelling tasks or other sets of homework if needed.

Maggie was the hardest to convince. When I told her what was happening her mouth had set in a hard line and she'd held me close, whispering in my ear to be careful. It took me back to a night I'd decided to leave the city and get away to protect my baby, a baby who was now running laps around our little yard in preparation to get on a plane to return to the place I'd run from. I told her we'd be back soon and she couldn't respond.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that we were able to leave, meaning we wouldn't land until well past dark. Owen had never flown before, and to add to the occasion we were flying out of the Bend airport, a tiny regional stop for mostly local flights and personal aircraft. We had to walk out on the tarmac to the airplane and before stepping up onto the stairs to the plane I'd turned around to see my mountains staring down at us. They'd been my comfort and protectors and I prayed that it wasn't the last time that I would set my eyes to their safe walls.

James leans forward in his seat again and beckons at me while he bend to wrap his fingers around one of my ankles. He gives it a gentle tug and I settle down with a smile while I move my foot up and he guides it into his lap, removing my flat and then pressing his thumb into the ball of my socked foot. Spontaneous foot rubs are his way of trying to get in good with me and have a little more sway in the conversation, but I definitely don't let on that I am on to his tricks.

"Names should have meaning," I muse as I let my eyes slide closed and enjoy James' ministrations. "They give us history or a sense of being if we let them. They can't just have any old name."

"What about Owen," James questions. "What does his name mean?"

I can feel the blush rise a little up my neck and can't hide the fact from James. I look at him again and see the corners of his mouth tip up and he digs his thumbs into my arches to encourage my story.

"I liked the name," I say slowly, lowering my voice to keep the conversation between us. "It wasn't until I looked it up later that I got the irony of it."

"What does it mean?" His eyes are picking up the smile now. I hesitate, the warmth spreading over my cheeks and the tips of his fingers are sliding up and over the soft skin on the inside of my ankle, ghosting there for a second before moving on. A rush of warmth up my legs makes me want to turn on the air vent over my head.

"It means, 'desire born'," I finally say and receive a definite smirk in response.

"How appropriate," he says under his breath. I would move to give him a nudge with my foot but I'm enjoying the foot rub too much to interrupt.

"But you're only suggesting names for boys," I try to move ahead with the conversation and past my embarrassment. "What if it's a girl?" He shrugs, crinkles his brows and there's a sad tilt to his smile.

"My sister had a good name," he muses. "'Rebecca'. I like that one."

His sister. The topic of family was one that he had the most trouble with when putting together the pieces of his pre-war life. Steve helped the most with that, telling him stories and providing more specific details about a family that James barely had any intact memories of. When they'd filled out a card concerning his sister Rebecca, he'd become slightly obsessed with the idea that she might still be alive. But the hope was brief as a quick search turned up death certificates from years before.

Those were difficult days, the aftermath of realizing how alone he was in the world caused him to pull into himself and keep quiet around the rest of us. But we are all orphans in this game, having severed ties with family by choice or by tragedy and eventually he came back around. We build a new family, one of us with our children and an extended family of friend's who are brothers. Some days it feels stronger than blood relations, more reliable than the stories I've heard of flaky relatives from co-workers.

"My mother was Karla," I say. I've never told him that before. He's never had occasion to ask and has pretty much left the topic of my family alone as his more tangible memories concern one member of them. James' tries his best to hide his reaction, but I can tell it's not going to be a contender. This time I do nudge his knee with my heel.

"I saw that," I jab.

"Sorry," he says and releases my foot to switch to the other. "It's not one of my favorites."

"It's all right. But what if it is a girl, would you be okay with not having another boy?"

"Of course," his fingers stop pressing and he moves his hands to snake up around my ankle again, to lean closer to me and then reach out a hand for mine. I want the way his fingernails scrape lightly over the skin on my calf and the press of his calloused palm sliding down towards my foot again.

"And you're all right not knowing?" he asks. "I know I asked to keep it a surprise, which puts a damper on your plans, I guess."

"It's fine," I tell him. "It's one of the last real surprises you can ever have in life. So I'm fine."

"But it wouldn't be so bad to have little Grant Buchanan running around with Owen," he says and I roll my eyes and exaggerate a sigh for effect.

We settle into a comfortable silence again, I watch the card games going on and eventually need to stand up and release the tension in my hips. I walk from one end of the tiny plane to the other, gently rocking my hips as I go. Owen puts on a giant pair of headphones and watches a movie, something with songs that he sings along to and James and Steve talk missions and plans and I try not to overhear.

The sun sets and the golden light throws awkward shafts of light around the cabin before we plunge into the waiting night. Owen and I curl up on the loveseat on side of the cabin and he goes to sleep with his head in my lap and I run my fingers slowly through his hair one way and then press it down the other. An old but soothing habit for both of us.

It's close to eleven local time when we pass over the city and get ready to land. I take in the glowing outline of Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs and I realize that there's a flutter of excitement inside me that has nothing to do with the baby. Part of me, however small and quiet in the past years, has missed the city and is happy to be back.

On the ground, James scoops up Owen blanket and all just like I used to do when he was a toddler but haven't been able to with my growing belly, and carries him to the waiting SUV. I stand for a moment by myself, watching them walk away and I breathe in the crisp fall air, the undertones of crunchy leaves and impending winter drawing out a smile. A rhythm of thumps and swirls from inside draw my palm to press against my belly and I am brought back to my reality.


	4. Chapter 4

It's amazing how quickly you can settle back into a place even after being gone for so many years. I find myself experiencing this when we arrive at the Tower and head down into a subterranean garage where the car is stowed and we can ascend to the upper floors in the glass elevators. The glow of transfixes me and I wrap an arm around James who carries a still slumbering Owen.

Memory serves me well but this time we are let off on a different floor than the one I remember living on. James leads the way down the hall until he comes to the right door. We enter into an apartment that is new to me but that he moves in with a familiar gait. It's larger than the one we had before, with two separate bedrooms instead of just the simple studio set-up. The furnishings are plain, but there are mementos of us placed in strategic locations: a picture on the fridge of the three of us from Owen's fourth birthday on the fridge, a sonogram photo of the new baby next to that, and a picture of me next to the bed in one of the rooms. Reminders of the life he fights to come back to after every mission.

James puts Owen to bed, tucking him in with his alligator and closing the bedroom door with practiced stealth. Even though it's almost midnight my mind is still going at full speed even though my body feels weighed down with fatigue. Traveling has taken a toll on me and I want nothing more than to put my feet up.

I wander into the other bedroom and lay down on what is usually my side of the bed and put pillow between my knees to ease some of the tension that builds again in my hips. James flicks off lights and sets an alarm in the main room, securing us for the night and finally comes to where I lie. He turns on a light on the bedside table and then turns off the overhead, letting the soft light drape over us. I'm drifting while the fatigue takes control of me and my eyes start to close of their own accord.

"You can sleep. You don't have to wait for me," he says while peeling off his shirt and changing into a pair of sweats. I make the extra effort to keep my eyes open and watch him while he does this. His body has lost none of it's tone or build over the years and even after all that time there are still things about him that I am learning. Every so often he will come home with new wounds that will become scars, new places for my fingers and lips to trace and memorize. It makes part of me sad but that part also knows that he is still trying to make up for the things he did. That sometimes he may take unnecessary risks in an effort to undo some karmic damage done so long ago.

"This place is nice," I murmur and then yawn.

"It does fine," he says and then sits on the bed and gives my arm a tug. I sit up with an effort and he hands me the long sleepshirt that I wear at home. It smells like the clean air and the scent tugs at me. I start to change, but it's difficult to hide my belly from him. I feel too big, to outside my own body, to want him to really have his eyes on me, but right now he's so insistent on sitting so close and watching every move I make that I can't escape it.

When I move to pull the shirt over my head, he reaches out and puts a hand on either side of my belly, pressing his calloused palms into the soft, stretched skin. I freeze and search out his eyes but there is nothing there but warmth.

"I've wanted you to come here, to bring Owen here," he says. "But I know it's hard for you. We're safe. I promise I will keep you safe. All of you."

I lean over and scooch to where I can reach him and he pulls me in as close as he can with our new baby between us. We practice new moves, reaching for a release that comes after he turns out the light and we sink into the bed to curl around one another.

Despite the newness of the place, I sleep like a rock.

In the morning, we meet up with Natasha and Steve in the communal kitchen for breakfast. Owen is beside himself with excitement and can't keep his head still long enough for wanting to see everything all at once. There's another man there to meet us, clearly a friend of Steve's who smiles easily and radiates ease. I can't help but feel assured in his presence.

"Sam Wilson," he introduces himself when I shake his hand, and then he draws me in for a hug. "I've heard a lot about you it's finally good to meet you."

Our groups sits down to a round of waffles, eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, whatever else we could possibly want that the kitchen could provide. Sam engages Owen in stories and I catch on that we'll leave them to stay occupied while James and I attend to business.

Steve, James, Natasha, and I end up in a large conference room after leaving Sam and Owen in the kitchen discussing the best materials for building wings and flight patterns. They allow me to come along, wanting my observations of the interviews and behaviors.

"So, where did you catch her?" I ask, thumbing through the paperwork being passed around the large table.

"We intercepted her outside of Cornwall and took her down before a rendezvous with HYDRA," Natasha says.

"She was there to meet Rumlow but he was gone by the time we could get it out of her where the final meet was," Steve adds. "That was last week. We've been waiting her out while she stews downstairs and thinks about whether or not she wants to cooperate."

"She ready to talk?" James asks. His eyes scan the papers and his eyebrows press closer together in concentration at some points.

"We'll see," Steve says and he sounds tired but determined. "We've been working on her, she seems to be wearing down."

I can understand the frustration he must feel at having pieces of the puzzle so tantalizing close but just out of his reach. But there is an undertone of deep patience in his tone and I know that eventually he will get his way. They discuss the tactics previously used and I keep reading about Morgan le Fay, a woman whose file leads to more questions than answers.

* * *

"He's happy," Natasha says, watching James' back as we walk down the dim hallway of holding cells. "Now if Steve could just manage the same."

"What about Sharon?" I ask, painfully self-aware of my awkward pregnant shuffle next to Natasha's cat-like grace. The way she walks could make even primaballerinas feel clunky and uncoordinated.

"He sees her every so often," she replies, exasperation in her voice. "It's like they're dancing around each other, they should just-" she pushes her hands together in front of her and then shakes her head. "Get it over with and put us all out of our misery."

Her assessment of Steve's love life (or lack thereof apparently) gives me a fit of giggles and I have to stifle them quickly when James turns his head slightly at the sound. I can see the smirk on his face and in my haste to quiet the laughter I give rise to some acid reflux in the back of my throat. Another wonderful side effect of being pregnant.

The four of us cram ourselves into the observation room adjacent to the holding cell and I get my first glimpse of the woman who was the only topic of conversation upstairs.

Morgan le Fay looks nothing like I imagined she would. I had been expecting something untamed and frothing at the mouth, but I know when I lay eyes on her that this seems all wrong. The woman at the table looks calm, if not a bit tired, and surprisingly relaxed and in control. Despite having been confined for almost a week she looks rather well kept. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun that sits at the nape of her neck and not a hair is out of place. I remember my own brief time that I was awake in one of the holding cells, and personal appearances had been the last thing on my mind.

They seem to have been on le Fay's though because her face is clean and her hands, which are cuffed to the table, have clean and tidy nails. Those are usually the first to go in any desperate woman. The only thing that seems out of place about her are the dark circles under her eyes. Whatever sleep deprivation they have forced on her in an attempt to wear her down has been internalized and shines in her eyes. It worries me. She keeps her hands clasped together on top of the table and her bright hazel eyes locked on the door. There is a storm brewing in those eyes and I wonder where they will be unleashed.

When Steve and James turn to leave the observation room I grab James' hand and pull it against me. I need to feel his touch and reassure myself. "Be careful," I say and in response he flattens his palm against me and I cover his hand with mine.

"I always am," he says and his mouth tips up at the corners.

Steve approaches the table and le Fay watches him lazily. He takes a seat opposite her and leans back in his chair to look her over, almost appraising her. James posts himself in the corner and leans against the wall, crossing his arms and visibly relaxing. It's a strategic split of their positions, postings that allow James to keep his eyes on his friend's back and never lose control of the room. The hard set of his mouth and eyes covers the gentleness we had just exchanged like there's a switch he can flip whenever he wants.

"Are we going to do this again?" le Fay asks in a bored voice.

"That depends," Steve says. "Are you going to tell us anything important? Because we're more than willing to listen whenever you want to start singing."

"I see you've brought a friend," she changes direction deftly, turning her attentions away from Steve to James. "I've heard a lot about you, Sergeant Barnes. If that's what they're calling you these days. Or should it be Winter Soldier? I just can never keep track of these things."

James doesn't rise to her simple bait. Instead he lets loose a yawn that he doesn't bother to conceal and remains leaning against the wall.

"They say you were a great asset," she purrs. "But that you dropped off the map and have gone soft. Wasting the gifts that they gave you. And for what? So you can play 'house' with a whore?"

James' metal hand clenches reflexively at her insult towards me and a chill seeps into me. How much of our life do they know about? Was it only a matter of time before our world collapsed? It sounds like if Steve hadn't gotten to us then someone else would have.

"You thought you could hide?" she almost whispers. "How wrong you were."

"Let's get back on topic," Steve interjects loudly. She shifts her attention to him but never takes her hungry eyes off James. His body is rigid, and I can tell he would like nothing more in the moment than to wrap his fingers around her throat.

"What business do you have with HYDRA?" Steve asks, trying to get things back on track.

"They needed me, and could afford my price," she says matter of factly. "It was strictly business."

"What kind of business," Steve presses. She looks back at him and pulls her hands off the table. James notes the movement and straightens up a little in response.

"Shmidt," she says to Steve. He shrugs but she smiles to herself.

"Johann Shmidt is dead," Steve says in an offhand way.

"You were dead once," she drawls out. "And so was he." She makes a motion at James who glances at the back of Steve's head. Steve's jaw clenches at her words and tension grips the room like a vice.

"Things that are dead don't always stay that way," she says.


	5. Chapter 5

Morgan le Fay leans forward in her chair and I think it's to pull Steve in but he doesn't move. Instead he barely leans back to give himself more space and the wild look in her eyes begins to rise to something akin to madness. The calm demeanor she had carefully crafted is breaking apart in front of our eyes and a crazed captive animal is left in it's place. I start to feel uneasy, like for all the control they assert over the room, that Steve and James aren't the ones holding the upper hand.

"So why the meet-up with Rumlow," Steve presses. "What's in it for him."

"I'm their key to Shmidt," le Fay says. "He has plans for securing his place at the top of the food chain, if you will."

"Shmidt was killed by the Tessaract," Steve says calmly. "I saw it myself."

"Not killed," le Fay corrects him. "Shmidt was _taken_."

There are tiny flashes of elation across le Fay's face when Steve's jaw does that thing again and she realizes how off guard she's caught him. Natasha picks up on it too, swearing under breath and finally sitting down in a chair beside me.

"What is it?" I say to her, but she just shakes her head at me and there are undercurrents of fear that cloud her eyes and I wonder what memories she is pushing back into the depths of her brain. Knowing this crew, it could be anything.

"Where was he taken," Steve asks le Fay.

James' eyes are darting back and forth between the two people at the table and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head while he takes in the volley.

"Beyond," she answers, drawing out the word and raising up her eyebrows for effect. It just makes her look more unhinged.

"Cut the cryptic shit," James says and his deep voice slices through the veil she's been hiding behind. Her smile tilts dangerously then slips off, leaving a sneer in it's place. Steve sits up at this point, and turns around to glance at James whose eyes have never left le Fay.

"You have nerve coming back," she growls at James. "Showing yourself against them only draws attention. You would have been much better off going rogue. HYDRA is evolving, moving forward and recovering. They'll cross the rift and bring back the Red Skull."

"That's impossible," Steve says. This time he's unable to keep his face passive. I cannot fathom the emotion that curls his hands into fists but he tries to regain control with a deep breath and settles his hands on the table.

"Is it?" she muses. "There are ways to open the doors to other worlds, other dimensions. Even other times. If you know how, then you can pull together the points on the tapestry of the universe and slice a hole straight through the fabric so you can stitch them all together again and create new possibilities."

"And that's where you come in," Steve says, understanding dawning in his voice. The file on her had made allusions to her abilities and the havoc it could cause. I shudder slightly thinking of the attack on New York and the hole ripped in the fabric of space. The idea of one person having powers to be able to do that shakes me to the core. Le Fay smiles at Steve and seems proud of herself for having brought them to this point.

It's at this moment that I notice her hands, kept deftly under the table and pulled up as far as she can to keep them from being seen by Steve and James. Though she's still cuffed, her hands are in a position as if clasped together, but instead they are held slightly apart. There is a small light being cradled in the center of them.

"Nat," I say and grab her arm. "Her hands!" She sees the same thing and lunges at the intercom button and smashes it with her palm.

"Hand check!" she says sternly into the speaker and it resonates in the small room. Steve and James both look up for a fraction of a second at the ceiling panels behind where the speak is hidden but it's a hair too long. Morgan le Fay pushes herself back in her chair and both Steve and James rush her, trying to get out of the way before she hurls the light their way.

Natasha moves faster than I can process what's happening in front of us and she grabs me and pulls me down before an errant ball of light smashes through the glass and showers us. Natasha shields me with herself, and for a second I think we're going to be okay when the light ricochets off the back wall and hits us. It goes through Natasha first and then into me. My whole body feels like it's on fire, a rush of pain and then a deep chill. I gasp for air and Natasha has gone rigid where she's come to rest on my side. I try to push her up with my elbow to keep her from rolling over onto my stomach and barely a few seconds later she's starting to shake and move again.

The sounds of struggle come through the smashed window and they're followed by maniacal laughter. Natasha rights herself and I scoot to the wall and press myself against it while I sit up. I feel dizzy and suddenly nauseous, the cold feeling still trickling down my limbs and I shake my hands trying to get it out of me faster. The nausea grows in a rush and swoop and I lean over and throw up on the concrete floor.

When Natasha pulls me up and we head for the door I get a glimpse into the room where Steve and James are restraining Morgan le Fay on the ground. They've got her hands behind her back while she's on her stomach and when we pass she looks up at me and smiles. I want to vomit again right then and there.

* * *

The afternoon sun drifts across the room and I am surrounded by a warm comfort. There are quiet voices slipping underneath the closed door, but I am not alone in this room. The picture of my own face smiles at me from the bedside table and I can place myself in the new apartment. I'm not alone though. A weight behind me shifts when I stretch my arms out and warm breath comes to kiss my temple.

"Are you alright?" James whispers, pressing his nose into my hair and taking a deep inhale.

"I'm fine," I reply. I push myself up and he moves with me, tracing a line down my back when I sit on the edge of the bed and blink myself back into reality.

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask, and he tells me only a few hours. I let my hands rest on my belly but am not surprised to find it's occupant is quiet. I don't think I was expecting anything but, but it seems like there is still a residue of the cold and hot that had flashed through my body earlier.

"Hey," he says gently and I turn to face him. His eyes are still creased with worry over me but I don't have any words to put his mind at ease.

"She's dangerous," I say and it's so obvious and stupid but I have to say it out loud.

"She told us the truth down there," I continue. "She may be off her rocker but she's telling the truth. And whatever they're planning could destroy everything."

"I know," he says. He looks down at his hands in his lap and is hesitating on putting together the words that I know are coming.

"We have to go after them," he says in an almost whisper. His eyes are searching my face for any sign of anger or fear but I am beyond those emotions. I knew that was coming and that there wasn't any other way it could play out.

In response I reach over and put his palms together and hold his hands together in mine. I've told him to come home to us enough times over the years that he doesn't need to hear it again. So instead I put all my strength to stand on my own into the places where our hands connect and a quiet minute of understanding passes between the two of us. He has his job, and I have mine. We are two metals, forged under fire and stronger together than we are apart.

Laughter comes to us from the living room, high laughs of our son caught in the middle of a game and then words of encouragement egging him in from his playmate.

"Can we do something?" I say and James lets himself relax. "I mean, can we go out and take Owen somewhere, see something that was yours when you grew up?"

"Yeah," he says and when he pulls me in for a kiss it's quick but steady and I think he's going to be okay. "I know just the place."

The 'place' turns out to be the Prospect Park Zoo in Brooklyn, something that James remembers and is still standing. Steve volunteers to come with us, and as the four of us wander around the zoo I can't help but take note of the stares we garner. I can't help the habit of glancing over my shoulder every so often but when I do it's to find James near enough to touch the small of my back to calm me, or to see Steve just behind me reading an exhibit display. I know they're trying their best to make me feel safe so I do my best to believe them.

Owen insists that we swing by the sea lion pen again, an easy task to accomplish since it's in the center courtyard of the zoo. James lifts Owen up onto his shoulders so he can see the animals better and Steve and I settle ourselves on a bench so I can rest and we watch the pair from a distance. I'm glad for the chance to sit, my back has started to hurt more than usual and I feel slightly dizzy the longer I stand.

"It's going to be fine," Steve says, trying to sound nonchalant.

"You guys keep saying that," I tease him. "No matter how often you say it I'm still going to worry."

This gets a smile and we focus again on Owen and James again while they enjoy the autumn evening and making new memories.

I shift my hips a little and try to find a more comfortable position, but nothing seems to help the ache in my back. It's starting to spread around my sides, slowly inching up my skin and then out to my belly button where it contracts and pulls the muscles into a spasm that takes my breath away. I feel sick again and have to move.

I struggle to stand and Steve helps me up but I tell him I need to go to the bathroom and he lets me go, trying my best to hide the pain from him. I hobble to the nearest restroom and barely make it into the single person family restroom and lock the door before I am doubled over from the strength of the contractions and the pain. It's so sudden, so violent, that a cold fear grips me.

What draws the tears to my eyes is the warm feeling seeping down my legs and when I put my hand down my pants to run my fingers up the skin of my inner thigh, they come back slicked with dark blood and my mind reels.

_Too soon,_ I am crying. Gasping for air when my muscles act of their own accord and I want it to stop but I can't make it. I can't even move from where I have collapsed on the floor. I scream with the last efforts of taking a breath and fighting the push and rip of my body as it tries to expel the life within me.

Whether I like it or not, this baby is coming.


	6. Chapter 6

Pounding, on the door or in my head I can't tell anymore. But it's there and I try to sit up but there is smears of red on the white tile floor and I choke on my tears. Pain tears me apart, wrenches me in two, and I cry for help and the pounding gets worse.

A broken lock, a kicked in door, and then over me the silhouette and glint of a metal arm and the man I need most. He sees the blood on the floor, on my hand and I twist again trying to fight the coming but he's picking me up and it's even worse, I try to move away. He's strong, holds me against him and moves quickly through the crowds to an exit. The cold air against my face stings my wet cheeks and I can't control the sobs. I can feel the blood still coming, and above me he's whispering, _no no no no no, _and it matches the frantic beat of his heart banging against his chest.

He is terrified.

We drive, faster and swerve more than we should and I'm in the back seat with James and Owen is up front, crying and Steve shouts into a radio. _Hospital_, I try to say because this is beyond the medical wing of the Tower and Steve knows it.

"Please, Alina, hang on," James whispers against me and my blood is everywhere on us, soaking my clothes and then on his. It just won't stop. Another contraction tears through me and I'm hot and grip James to ride it out but I get sick again and throw up on the floor of the car.

Steve barely stops the car in the vehicle bay of the emergency room before James is out and hauling me inside. He's shouting, but I'm starting to fade. People rush at us, a man in a white coat calls orders in different directions and moves us towards a pair pushing a stretcher our way.

They lay me on the stretcher, press my body into the foam pad and I see James back away while I am surrounded. I reach for him, cry out for him, but he recedes.

"Name?" they say.

"Barnes," is his barely audible response.

They wheel me away, calling me Mrs. Barnes and telling me it's going to be okay. But I tilt my head back and a strangled cry mixes with James' name in my mouth and the last I see of him is his stricken form slumping against the wall before a set of double doors close and he's gone.

An operating room, the oxygen mask secured over my mouth and I suck the sweet air greedily. A face over mine, kind brown eyes staring down at me from over a surgical mask and gentle fingers pressing my hair back. A comforting gesture. My lips form James' name over and over. I want to find him, want to draw him in, but the face shushes at me and I can't move.

More voices and I think I'm under water the way they are muffled. There's pressure on my middle, I know they are hands, cutting into me and pulling parts to get at the baby. I try to focus, waiting for the shrill cry that came after Owen was pulled out, the happy news from the doctors shielded right now from my view by a blue screen. But more time goes by, the voices are frantic, and then someone pushes away from the table cradling a towel in their arms, moving to another bench across the room and the tones hush around me.

I lock on the brown eyes, beg them to give me some kind of news but they keep telling me to stay calm. I try to move again but there's a cold sensation in my arm, drugs in an IV, and I gasp for breaths as the darkness creeps up my body and I succumb to it, watching the group of doctors across the room attend to my silent baby.

* * *

I come to, slowly, waking from the dream of safe mountains and quiet vistas to see my body stretched out in a recovery room bed. Fluorescent lights flicker a little and I am heavy from the sleep and the drugs being pumped into me. A morphine haze hangs over me and I turn my head slowly and James is beside me, staring at me from an obscenely green plastic chair that had to be uncomfortable but he looked like he hadn't moved in days. His eyes, red and puffy, don't pick up the weak smile he gives me when I meet them.

I don't want to ask, but he rocks forward and curls his fingers around my hand, letting out a shaky breath before he starts to speak. I catch words like, _rupture _and _hemorrhage_. I stare beyond him and _removed _and _gone _echo in the tiny room. A deep ache flowers in my middle and then pain across my belly, an incision, trying to close a black hole that settles into me.

"A girl" he chokes back. "It's a girl."

Together we dissolve.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for following and reading and giving feedback! You guys have been great readers and very patient with me while I work through these stories. I hope you're enjoying yourselves. _

* * *

There isn't a good time to visit the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. There are better times, times that are less traumatic, times where you don't have to bear the glances from other parents visiting doll-size babies. Parents who wonder which one of you all have it the worst, because sometimes you grasp at anything that will help ease the grip on your heart.

James and I figured out quickly that the daytime is not our best time. Once I was moved from recovery, the first chance we could James lifted me from the bed and into a wheelchair to make the trip to the NICU. It took all my energy to stay upright but he stuffed a pillow and some blankets around me to ease the effort. We made our way slowly through the hospital with my IV stand in tow, but it gave us time to attempt to prepare for what we would see.

The NICU was busy with staff who kept buzzing from incubator to incubator, and parents who visibly deflated when we set foot on the ward. It was like a field day for them having an amputee and an emergency delivery mother around, relieving them of the pressure of being contenders for "most unfortunate". We were scooped up quickly by a mother-hen type nurse who took us down the line to the isolation room where the super premature babies were, the ones that needed the most care. Those who were most vulnerable. She said we couldn't go inside, not just yet, but pointing out the isolette with the little placard affixed to the side with handwritten letters in pink that said 'Baby Girl Barnes'.

The nurse brought a chair for James and we sat by the window just absorbing the tiny girl under the plastic cover. They said her lungs were weak, so she needed help breathing. That she couldn't do regular feedings, so she needed a feeding tube. I tried to count the wires and tubes I could distinguish coming off her tiny, pink body, but the number overwhelmed me and I let it drop. It was hard to feel anything but heavy sadness on our shoulders that afternoon and it wasn't long before I started to get dizzy and tired and needed to go back to my room.

I hated the afternoon visit, hated the feeling of all those eyes on us and the whispers I knew would come. I didn't want anything to do with anyone else when we went to see our daughter. Which is how we started coming in the middle of the night, the quietest part of the schedule. Usually the downtime is strictly enforced as 'no visiting hours' but when Stark Industries is paying your bills and Captain America has some persuasive power, there are doors that tend to open when they otherwise wouldn't.

It's been four days since the birth and tomorrow they're going to release me. But I've already resigned myself to the necessity of the daytime visits since I won't be sleeping in the hospital anymore. The night staff have become accustomed to our presence, mostly because we don't say much to anyone so they don't bother us. The worst are the hours when James and I don't say much to each other. I don't have words for how I feel watching our baby fight for existence. I turn the day over and over in my mind and come back to the same person to blame for this. The crazy eyes and ball of light passing through me are never far from my immediate thoughts.

They tell me that I need to eat, that I need to keep my strength up, but I don't have any appetite so I only pick at food that's put in front of me. It's all like cardboard in my mouth. James can usually coax me to take drinks from the cans of Ensure that have started appearing on my meal trays, but even those taste like chalk.

Tonight, he slides his chair closer to mine and in our reflection in the viewing window I see how slumped his shoulders have become. He's been sleeping in the recliner style chair in my room, it doesn't actually recline it's more for show, but he uses a plastic chair to prop up his feet and lean back to get some sleep. Every time I stir though he will open his eyes so I know that neither of us is actually sleeping.

He opens his mouth a couple times like he's going to say something but again there are no words. Instead he reaches over and lets his hand come to rest on the back of my neck where his fingers work gentle circles to ease tension.

"I'm scared to leave," he finally says and the sentiment is perfect.

"Me too," I admit, because when he says those words I realize that's what had been creeping into my mind tonight. It's a fear that if we're too far away, that if we can't be near her then she'll slip away from us.

"I think we need to pick a name," he says. In our reflection he turns to look at me but I don't reciprocate. I know that he's right. It's time we gave her something more than just 'Baby Girl' to call her own. With a name though comes a responsibility to life. We give her that name and she's got something to hold on to and we've got something to grieve over if it should come to that. When I'm sitting, my hand will come to rest on my middle where she had been, sitting gently on the incision across my belly where they took her out.

They told me there was so much blood, that the womb had been ruptured and she was drowning in it. A strange thing to say to me since I know medically she's already surrounded by fluid but I think it was the image more than the accuracy that they wanted. They couldn't stop the bleeding, couldn't figure out how my uterus sustained a tear and still my body tried to give birth. They didn't understand how she hadn't died.

In the end they had to take it out, removing that part of me that had, for a time, held safe my two children and was now left in shambles from whatever spell had been unleashed. We can have no more children, and the emptiness I carry has plenty to do with the loss of possibilities and a future that we didn't choose.

But we should hold on to the present need, that there is a baby just beyond this glass that needs us to claim a place for her in the world.

Eventually I nod and he pulls out a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket with scratched out lines all over it. It's a list of names he's been trying out, but then scratching off when it doesn't feel right to him. This is the first thing in days that makes me feel something other than mixtures of despair.

"You've been keeping a list?" I say but my tone is so flat that the teasing it was meant to be is lost. Still, he smiles a little and hands them over to me. Some of the names aren't great. Some are okay, but many of them are variations on the same theme with 'Rebecca' playing somewhere in the lines. I run the tip of my finger over the name and let it melt into my brain where it can find a companion.

"I had a friend in school," I tell him. "Her name was Sarah but we all called her Sadie because Sarah was her mother's name, too. She was a small kid, really scrappy, but tough, you know. Never gave up and kept up with all of us. Do you know what 'Sarah' means?"

He shakes his head.

"It means, 'Princess'," I tell him. I write the two names together on the paper and give her the surname, Sadie Rebecca Barnes, then hold it up to show him. He takes it gingerly and runs his thumb over the name then looks up through the window.

"Hello, Sadie," he says quietly and finally it feels real. It feels like a place to start.

James gets up to go find someone who can fix the little name placard, clutching the paper like it's everything in the world to him. He still seems heavy, but maybe now with a lightness around the edges. I don't dare let my hopes get too high though. There is still a long road ahead of us and picking a name is the least of our problems.

When he comes back and settles himself beside me again he's returned the paper to his pocket and we watch a nurse go into the isolation room and change the placard so a new one, written in James' careful letters, can smile out at us. Sadie Barnes, it says in the pink pen, and even that is enough for this moment. And I'm glad it's the middle of the night and no one else can bear witness to this, because for a little while the name will be ours.

"You gave them your name," I say quietly. "When they were working on me, they called me Mrs. Barnes."

"Oh," he replies, his mouth drooping at the corners a little bit. "I wasn't thinking, I guess."

"It's okay," I say and lean towards him. I rest against his metal arm, and let my fingers cover his. "I want her to have it. I want Owen to have it, too."

"What about you?" he looks my way, his eyes searching my face.

"If that's what you want," I tell him. "Then I can't say it's a problem."

He tilts in and kisses me, soft, and stays with his forehead against mine.

"When are you leaving?" I ask, because I know that he will still feel that want to go on the mission with Steve, even more so now probably after what's been done to us. I want him to stay, but I also want him to make people pay. It's an urge that I have keep from expressing.

"A few days," he says. "I'll come back as soon as I can. I won't be gone long."

"I know. We'll be okay. You just come back when this is all through."

"I promise."

Promises, they're things we tell ourselves when there are still fragments of doubt in our minds. I don't doubt his efforts, but I worry that what he's fighting will not allow him to stand. But he is strong and determined to come home, so there is something in his words that settles me.

I will have to stand again, to bear the weight of our life once more, but this time I have support. And this time I will have to find a new strength I don't know if I possess. Then that manic smile comes back to me and the laughter to go with it and a new fire starts to stir inside me. Someone has to pay.


	8. Chapter 8

We retreat to my room around three in the morning for a few precious hours of sleep. Steve is coming at eight to pick us up and we could both do with a rest. James moves towards his customary corner with the chairs but I grab his hand and stop him.

"Stay with me," I say and give his hand a gentle tug. He steps closer and then pulls me in where I rest myself against his chest. My body starts to drain, like all of the tension in me is seeping down and out through the soles of my feet. He puts his cheek on the top of my head and makes a solid wrap around my body. I try not to become too focused on the way we fit together again, the way he can pull me in and hold me so close.

When he starts to sway slightly I think maybe it's because he's tired. I am starting to feel the late night myself, but when he begins to hum and it resonates in his chest, it draws a smile to my lips I know instantly what he's doing. At home he's constantly exploring the music on Pandora and shuffling his feet or tapping fingers along to whatever station he's picked for the moment. At first he stuck to the big band music saying that it pulled at him and he had to move to it. He tried to keep the impulses in but eventually it spilled out of every part of him and directed the fluid way he moved, a dancer again after so long. Whenever I'm near he will pull me in and move me along too, dancing and laughing together.

So now, when he let's an internal song hum it's way into being in the cavities inside him, he settles his right arm around my waist and then cradles my other hand with his metal one and starts to drift with me around the room. The words of the song slip out and I recognize 'Beyond the Sea', a tune he's come to especially like. He leads me gently, shuffling more instead of the sweeps and turns he's so fond of in our own kitchen. My slippers make little scuff noises as I move across the tile floor in time with his song. The dance is small compared to others but he is careful not to overexert me in my healing state.

He gives my hip a gentle push with his fingers and sends me back away from him but he tugs back on the hand still held in his when I almost slip away. When I start back towards him he bites his bottom lip in a smile, a habit that always makes me weak in the knees and when I come against him again in a dance, I can feel something good for a moment. It's a quiet reminder that things could be good again. That we could make our way back to a calm place. Not the same one, but still something good.

Against him, I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of him: laundry soap, warm metal, the slight air of sweat and deodorant. Not unpleasant smells, but wholly him and entirely different from the disinfectant laced sterility of the hospital. I drift in his supporting embrace and give in to the fatigue. Eventually he scoops me up and lays me down in bed, climbing in beside me and curling his body around mine in a protective embrace. I sleep soundly in his arms.

A nurse finds us in the morning, I'm pressed into the curve created by James' body, his little spoon, and she wakes me first and says with a wink that she won't tell on us. It's an empty threat anyways, there's nothing to tell. When I shift myself slightly in his arms James wakes instantly, drawing in a sharp breath as he does. I push myself into a sitting position and rub the sleep from my eyes. The cool sun drifts lazily across the floor and my feet hang in a shaft of light from the window.

Steve is prompt, arriving right on time and bringing a jubilant Owen with him. My son holds flowers and a card he's made himself and when he comes in the room and we see each other he forgets the gifts and runs at me. I disregard the pain in my middle and kneel down to envelope him in my embrace and soothe the tears that streak his cheeks. I collapse to kneel on my legs and Owen attaches himself to me with his arms around my neck. "Were you good for Uncle Steve?" I ask and he nods against me while he clings to me and I hold on to him for dear life.

The doctor has to see me one more time before I'm allowed to go home, so I sit again on the bed with Owen and he shows me the card he made which is slightly crumpled from our hug. He flattens it out as best he can and I tell him I think it's perfect. I don't have to lie to him. The drawing on the front tugs at me, four figures next to a house and a cat on one side. His little family.

James and Steve stand against the wall with the window on their left and the door on their right, able to keep an eye on the entire room and any mode of entry. They chat in low voices and watch Owen and I going over a stack of drawings we've laid out on the bed. Steve asks about the baby and James passes on that we named her.

"Sadie Rebecca Barnes," Steve says with a wistful smile. "God help the world there's another one of you running around."

This gets him a soft punch in the shoulder from James and what equates to a laugh from me. It's really more of a smirk, but I feel like for now it is enough. I will have to work back to a real laugh again.

I check out fine, no signs of infection and my incision is healing nicely. The doctor tells me no heavy lifting or strenuous activity. He gives me stacks of papers of instructions and information about caring for myself after the procedure, and slipped into the pile are pamphlets on emotional well being and dealing with the aftermath of a hysterectomy. I trash those the minute he's out of the room. I don't have time for sympathy papers.

* * *

Only immediate family is allowed on the NICU, and kids only by appointment. But there is a quiet authority to the way our little party of four strolls onto the floor that silences the other families. This time I walk with my head up, if somewhat slowly, holding Owen's hand and flanked by Steve and James. They create an impressive visual, living up to the idea that the best way to prove you belong somewhere is to act like it. Nobody questions us.

We go back to where Sadie still lies beneath her plastic dome, the wires hidden for the time being by a strategic blanket. Owen looks puzzled the first time he sees her, confused almost at the sight. Steve puts a hand on James' shoulder and the two exchange a look that I can't place. A mixture of congratulations, sympathy, and encouragement all wrapped into one.

"That's her?" Owen says and looks up at me, still clutching my hand probably out of fear.

"You're a big brother now," I tell him and hold him against me. "Sadie is going to need you to protect her from now on. She needs all of us, but you especially."

"Like Poppa protects us?" he asks. He presses a hand against the glass like he's trying to push his way through to the little girl.

"Yes," I say and there's a serious look in his shimmering blue eyes. "We all protect each other. It's what we do." He nods in understanding.

It's a long afternoon getting home. I wear out quickly after the walk through the hospital and the visit to Sadie. It hurts in a new place to leave her behind and when Steve leaves us at the front door of the hospital to go get the car I feel like I am doing the wrong thing by going. But they won't let me stay any longer and there are other things to take care of. My mind has already started to tick off a list of things to do, and I lean against James while we wait. The crisp, fresh air bolsters me a little and when I take a deep breath I can feel some of the fog inside of me lifting slightly.

The first person we meet when we get back to the Tower is Natasha. She's waiting in the underground parking garage and gives me a bear hug when she sees me. I manage to pull away from her grip to get a few words in before she can squeeze me to death.

"Are you okay?" Is the only thing I can say, needing to know if she's as okay as she appears to be.

"I'm fine," she assures me and waves away my concern"It's you I'm more worried about. How are you?"

"I'm doing as best as you'd expect," I tell her. "There's one thing we need to do though, before I am completely dead on my feet."

She looks from me to James and back again but he gives nothing away in his face, instead turning the attention back to me with a tilt of his head.

"I want to talk to Morgan le Fay," I say. "Alone."

* * *

James and I travel deeper into the Tower than I have ever been before, led by Steve whose brow has taken on a permanent crease since I expressed my request. He'd argued with me in the upstairs apartment, saying it was unnecessary and risky and dangerous. All the logical things I knew he would say. James hardly fights with me on the issue and I am grateful when he finally intercedes on my behalf.

"Steve," he says and then sighs. "You'd want to if it was you."

First we take the usual glass elevator to it's bottom limit and then having to switch to another, more industrial style one that descends even deeper into the earth. I suppress a chill and take James' hand to steady myself. The new hallway is bare, concrete, and the moment we step out of the elevator I can almost feel the weight of all that earth and building that sits on top of us. We go down the short hallway past two doors with small windows in them until we stop at the last one. These cells don't have the large viewing windows so I have to press my face up to the tiny ones on the door to get a look inside.

Morgan le Fay sits in the corner of the room and for a minute I think it's by choice but then I see she's cuffed again, her hands encased in gloves, and she's attached to the concrete floor by a short length of chain. It's not enough for her to properly stand up, but just enough to allow her to sit upright against the wall or to lay down on the thin mattress on the floor. She looks terrible. Gone is the clean face and well kept hair of the woman I'd seen before and in their place is that wild animal that has been fully realized. There are bruises on her face, not just shadows, but deep blacks and blues still that will eventually fade to green, yellow, and back to normal. Her clothes are dirty as well and I wonder if she's been allowed to change in the intervening time. I would bet not.

I am happy about her discomfort. I don't feel guilty about admitting that fact to myself but I am careful to keep it from being shown. I don't know who would have given her those bruises, there are a few people I can think of off the top of my head, but I say a silent thank you to whoever it was that doled out the punishment. It fits for her to pay a price.

"You don't have to do this, Al," James says and I turn to look into his eyes. They are filled with concern and I put a hand on his arm before reaching up on my tip toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. His mouth sets in a hard line but he doesn't offer any more chances for me to back out, because I do have to do this. Even if only to settle something inside myself. I grip the door handle and take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and then let my breath out slow and controlled.

I move slowly and deliberately, trying to channel a vision of the fluid and assured way that James moves. I have to appear in control even if I don't completely feel that way. Le Fay watches me from her corner. She doesn't bother to move or even make an attempt. All that happens is her eyes track me while I close the door and face her again.

"You're missing something," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Shut the fuck up," I reply, keeping my tone as casual as I can. I stand close to the door and keep my back pressed against the wall. I want to stay ahead of my fatigue and controlling my emotions is key to maintaining an upper hand in the conversation.

"So," I say. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"No," she wheezes. She has to stop and cough to clear her throat. Her voice is hoarse and I wonder if she's been drugged during the last few days. It would have been easy way to control her in addition to the restraints, and they haven't been stingy with the medications in the past.

"You tried to kill us. I think that merits an explanation."

"It wasn't meant for the other one," she continues. "When it passed through her it lost some of it's potency and that's why your child still lives."

"Why? What does killing me or my baby do for you," I say as flatly as I can, but inside I am raging. It takes an immense effort to stay where I am, to not launch myself across the room and rip her to shreds.

"There are ways to hurt someone without touching them," she admits. "HYDRA has been watching him and keeping an eye on all of you, biding their time until they could strike again. I wanted to get ahead of the game. I could take away what was precious to him, rendering him incapable of direction or thought. Destroy him by destroying you."

"And this is all for their big plan?"

"Yes. They will rise again once the Red Skull is brought across the rift. Your Sergeant poses quite the threat. I had the chance to get rid of him."

"If you haven't noticed," I say. "It didn't work. And to be frank, the last thing you should have done was piss him off."

I don't stay to see what she does. Instead I turn tail and run out the door and straight into James' waiting arms where I lose my footing and he holds me upright. I grip fistfuls of his shirt and keen into the fabric, angry and torn to pieces all over again.


	9. Chapter 9

The long day finally catches up with me and I need painkillers. Not just aspirin or ibuprofen, but the heavy duty stuff to dull the consuming ache in my body. Back in our apartment James serves me up vicodin and some soup he's got stacks of cans of in the cupboard. He apologizes that there isn't anything more up to par, but I manage a few spoonfuls before I lose interest and the medicine starts to work it's way through my system. I need the pain in my middle to go away, and I especially need to forget the hollowness that I feel when I think too long about what happened to me.

I don't know if that will ever go away, this sudden missing of a part of me. I hadn't ever given much thought to what it would be like but having the choice taken away from me is what's hardest to process. My mind doesn't want to wrap around the fact that there is a hole inside me where something so defining had been. So I can't blame myself for wanting to forget for awhile.

James sets me up on the sofa with pillows and blankets, a cushy nest where I drift in and out of sleep while he and Owen orbit around where I rest. Through the evening I stay in my spot, moving only to adjust into a more comfortable position to take more medicine and eat more soup. Steve comes over to check on us and I lazily follow his movements across my field of vision but don't bother too much to focus on him. They put on a movie and James sits where he can pull my legs across his lap and drape an arm across my hip. The pressure of him and the slow circles that his fingers trace absent mindedly on my leg are a small comfort.

I open my eyes suddenly when I'm lifted, carried across the living room to be laid down in our bed. James curls me around a pillow that he places tenderly against my middle and then supports my back with other cushions. Then a surprise when he brings in Owen, who is lost in deep throes of sleep, and lays him down in the middle of the bed before climbing in on the other side. Keeping us all close, I think he won't sleep much tonight while he watches over Owen and I. It feels nice to be taken care of.

It takes another full day and night before I feel rested enough. James keeps an eye on my medication and incision. I can tell he doesn't like to see me this way, laid out to so completely and vulnerable. I don't like it much either. He keeps Owen occupied and in the afternoon the two of them go to back to the hospital to visit Sadie. I want to go, but James makes me stay home on the couch.

They come home with good news: she's strong enough that she can leave isolation and be moved into a room where we can interact with her. They'll make the move in the morning and there's no way I will miss it.

"The doctor wants us to start some kind of therapy with her," James tells me that night. He's made macaroni and cheese from the blue box, an Owen request, and served me up half a vicodin on the side.

"They called it 'kangaroo care'," he says. "Where we hold her against us, skin-to-skin, for hours at a time even. They said it helps them grow and get better faster." There's doubt in his voice, but I know the therapy he's talking about and have heard that it works.

"When do we start?" I ask, pushing my dinner around the bottom of the bowl. James is watching me carefully, taking note of how much I don't eat. I can see it on the tip of his tongue to say something but he restrains himself. It's enough to know that he is aware of it to make me take another bite. To try to get back to normal.

"They'll move her tomorrow morning so we can go as soon as then and start," he answers. It's all I need to hear to force down more and reassure him that we can all get better.

* * *

The moment I put my palm on Sadie's back I feel that rush of chemistry in my brain. Dopamine surges in response to a connection that is deeper than anything else I've ever felt and the force of it hits me so hard it's like being punched in the chest. If ever there was love at first sight or first touch, this is it. She's warm under my hand and I can barely feel the slight rise and fall of her body as she breathes, assisted by a ventilator that'll stay put until she gives us the cue that she doesn't need it anymore. They tell me she's doing well though, growing faster than they had anticipated and they might be able to remove the breathing machine soon.

While I stand beside the isolette where Sadie is, James is asking the doctor as many questions as he can and everyone in the room is talking in whispers. The effect it has is to keep all conversation in the background. My focus remains on Sadie and it doesn't break until I feel a gentle hand on my elbow.

"Do you want to hold her?" the nurse asks. She comes up barely to my shoulder but there is a calming force eminating from her. I can feel her steady energy at the place where she touches me and I trust her instantly. Despite my nerves, nothing bad will happen while she is here to help. I take off my sweater so I'm in my tank top and sweats, then stand beside the nurse, who guides my hands under Sadie so that I'm supporting her body and her head. The nurse holds the tubes and tells me to move as slowly as I need to, and we settle me down into the chair next to the isolette. I bring my hands up, and with the quiet instructions from my teacher I place Sadie on the bare skin of my chest.

I get that rush again and tears start to blur my vision. The nurse doesn't say anything, just helps me position my arm so Sadie can rest in a nook and then wraps a cloth around my upper body to hold us together. She then places a hospital gown over me like a blanket to help keep us warm and I let myself sink into the complete bliss I feel holding my daughter against me.

Time melts away, the other people fade into the background, and I only have eyes for my little girl. The morning passes in a delicious blur while I sit with Sadie. The doctor and nurse leave eventually and James comes over to sit with me. He perches on the arm of the chair and leans over so he can see down the small tent I've made with the gown and watch. I talk to her, tell her all about us and our life and how she fits into it. I doze a little, and James keeps watch again. When we take a break to have lunch in the hospital cafeteria I manage to eat a whole sandwich without any encouragement from James who just smiles at the change. I have to force it down at times, but I make it.

When we come back from lunch I ask James if he wants to take a turn. He rubs a hand behind his neck and seems unsure at first, like he's afraid of what could happen if he's not careful. "I don't want to hurt her," he says. I put an arm around his waist and pull myself close to him.

"You won't," I reply simply. He moves to give me a side hug and kisses the top of my head, then releases me so I can go find the nurse to help us again. I don't have to go far as she seems to be hovering nearby in case we needed anything else. When we get back, James strips off his shirt and settles himself in the armchair. He watches us with trepidation at the corners of his eyes while we pick up Sadie again and get ready hand her off to him.

"It's okay," I whisper as I lean in and he puts his hands over mine to pass off our daughter. Together we place her against his chest, resting her head just below his collar bone and he creates a nook with his right arm. The nurse lays the tubes and wires down carefully and then gently wraps the fabric around them. Sadie lays pressed directly against his skin, absorbing the warmth and steadiness from him. I keep my eyes glued on him as he looks down at his child, taking in everything about her while she syncs herself to the rhythms of his heart and breaths.

I allow myself the intimacy of running my fingers through his hair and dipping down to rest my forehead against his. For a moment we both watch Sadie, curling her fingers slightly, fluttering her eyelids but not really opening them, but then James tips his head suddenly and we meet in a kiss. The warmth of it rushes through my body and I trace my fingertips along his jawline before I pull away. I drag the second chair over so I can sit facing them. I curl up in it to watch the two of them and rest.

"You know," he says and looks my way, spreading that warm grin up his face. "It's crazy, but this doesn't scare me half as much as it did with Owen."

"How do you mean?"

"She's so fragile," he explains. "It's going to sound stupid but I feel like I know how to take care of someone like this. Owen is so strong and healthy, so different. But her, I know how to take care of her."

His words make me smile and I feel like I understand him better than I ever have. It's been barely ten minutes that he's had her in his arms and already he would lay down his entire world to keep her safe. It's the same way I felt the first go around, that there wasn't anything I wouldn't do to protect my children. So with this new understanding I broach the issue I've been turning over in the back of my mind.

"I need to talk to you about something," I start, gently at first to ease him into the conversation.

"What is it?" his voice is low, and I try to imagine whether or not it will rumble through Sadie the same way it does with me when I rest against his chest like that.

"I don't want you to leave," I say in a quiet voice. He doesn't balk, the only reaction I get is a slight narrowing of his eyes when he looks at me.

"I have to," he replies, still calm.

"But what if something happens," I push back. "What if you get hurt, or what if you flashback and can't recover. What if you don't come back?"

"That's the way it's been all along," he says. "There's always the chance that those things are going to happen. They could happen even if I'm not going off on a mission. You know this."

"I know," I say. I lean forward and push my fingers into my hair and then press the heels of my hands onto my brows, trying to iron out all the crinkles that are appearing before my eyes.

"And you know that I can't back out," he insists, his voice still low but there is an urgency in it that pulls my eyes up back to his. "There's no way that's going to happen."

"I know," I nod and then settle back against the chair. "I just don't know what's going to happen and that scares the shit out of me."

"Come here," he beckons me over and I move the chair to be right beside his. He holds his arm out and I go into that alcove where he can slip his arm around me and keep me close.

"I will never _just leave_," he whispers. "There is everything to come back to and I will always come back. You have to trust that."

"I can't do this on my own," I struggle to keep it in but it just spills out and then I start to cry. His metal hand comes up and wipes at the tears, and I put my hand against his metal palm where it's warm.

"You can," he says. "But you won't have to."

My worry hangs between us, but I don't say anything else. We could spend hours chasing the arguments around the room but I know the outcome will be the same. He will leave all the same and I will carry us through till the end of it.

So for now, I leave the issue where it is and give us the quiet we deserve to take care of Sadie.


	10. Chapter 10

He told me he always shaves before a mission. Even though he completes the chore most days, he will still take time to run the razor over his face again and leave smoothness where the rough shadow had been claiming space. He said that it helps him center himself, to prepare mentally for what is to come by creating the image that he sees himself as now. There is a self-possessed power that radiates from him as he changes from the person I know intimately into the one I see framed by the open en-suite bathroom door. He becomes a different man right before my eyes. It doesn't surprise me very much.

During my time as a student and in my work I had read many studies about the necessity of habits and rituals and their tendency to become gateways through which people would pass to assume a different identity or persona. Compartmentalization of the aspects of a soldier that make them effective at completing missions is necessary for their survival in battle, but could otherwise wreak havoc in civilian life if left unchecked. So it makes perfect sense to me that James would have a ritually methodical task that helped set his mind to leave the rest of the world behind.

I sit on the end of the bed, my knees tucked up against my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs. I hold myself close and rest my cheek on my drawn in knee so that in my line of sight James seems slightly askew. His left arm is facing me and I think of all the times that I have traced the lines running up and down it with the tips of my fingers, the times that I have examined the red star and flattened my palm over the metal that is warm beneath my touch. If it weren't for the strange hardness and unyielding power of it I could be fooled into thinking that it was warm skin.

The clock beside the bed reads 11:35 pm, given away by the quiet and stillness from the rest of the apartment. Owen has been put to bed since 8:30, his usual time, but this time with the special ritual with his father that signals his impending departure. I am not privy to these sessions between the two of them. Whatever he says to our son to explain his absences is known only to them but puts Owen at ease which makes my life easier. We haven't talked about Sadie, though. At the hospital earlier in the afternoon, while he was having his turn holding her, he talked to her in a low voice and gave her promises that he would return. I stayed as long as I could, listening to him tell her he wanted to see her grow, to be there when she opened her eyes and looked up at us for the first time. For first words, steps, smiles, grades. That he'd be back before she even had a chance to miss him. I listened until the tears had to be dealt with and I fled the room for a solitary space in the locking family restroom in the hallway.

I hope for all our sakes that he continues to keep his promises.

I watch James now with careful attention. After washing his face with warm water, he dispenses a measured amount of shave cream from the aerosol can, wrinkling his eyebrows a little at the thing. He said that it didn't used to come that way, that there wasn't anything wrong with good old soap, but still I buy it for him and it makes me smile to see him keep a can of it in this apartment. He spreads the cream over the five-o-clock shadow and then rinses his hands before he picks up his razor. He uses clean, quick strokes to shave, starting with his neck and then working his way up to his cheeks until he finishes with the hard lines of his jaw. It seems to take no time at all. These practiced motions have the air of routine about them, like they could be completed in his sleep if he so chose.

"Where did you go, Al?" he says to me, never taking his eyes from the mirror but I don't miss the smile. I realize I must have been either staring off into space or dozing off with my eyes open. Probably a combination of both considering the late hour and the inherent tiredness that comes with being a mom.

I lift my head from my knees and he is righted in my field of view. "Nowhere," I respond but I can't hide the slight drawing out of my vowels and the yawn that takes the opportunity to escape my body. He laughs a little at me, and then washes the remains of the shaving cream from his face, leaving the newly revealed gleaming skin. In these moments it's easy to forget how old he really is. He runs a comb through his hair and the actions seem to settle him and when he sets it back down on the counter and assess himself in the mirror I can see his shoulders dropping back and the way it pulls his head up. Confident, collected, in control of the situation. This is how I will choose to think of him over the coming separation.

He pulls on a long sleeved, plain black shirt when he comes back into our bedroom and takes a seat next to me on the edge of the bed. I let my legs extend out and drape over the side of the bed and lean against him, my forehead resting against the human side of him and his shirt scratching at my skin. He smells clean, warm, and like every part of home that makes it worth coming back to. I drink in the feel of his weight on the bed, the way his arm goes around me and he pulls me in close. The feel of his lips pressing a kiss to my hair and then his metal fingers pushing strands back behind my ears. Even in my tired state I can appreciate all these things.

"I'm not saying it," I tell him. My voice is warm and I trace the lines of his cheekbones on his face with the tips of my fingers. It's been our habit not to tell each other goodbye, to leave our last words as ones of reassurance instead of ending. His blue eyes are harbors I could pull into for the rest of my life and all they can fill with for this moment is my face. The corners of his eyes crinkle in response and he leans in to kiss me and it's like being filled to brim with a surge of hope mixed with certainty.

He will come back, I think to myself.

"Be safe," I say instead when we break apart and he pulls me in closer, enveloping me in his embrace and practically holding me in his lap.

"I will," is the only thing he says and we just sit quietly for a time, until midnight when there is a soft knock on the front door and my heart dips in response.

There are no tears when he gathers his bag, checking once more that everything is stowed securely inside. No tears when I wrap my arms around his shoulders and press myself against him once more, making an impression of his body with mine and cementing the way we fit together into my long term memory. When he opens the door and Steve is there in a similar get up with the same bag and same look of tasks at hand in his eyes there are still no tears. Not even when he looks back one more time when he is closing the door behind his departing self and I raise a feeble hand to wish him farewell.

"Be safe," I say before the door shuts and for a second both of their faces are framed and they both nod almost in sync. Those two words say more than any other phrase I can conjure up, and it is the last thing I am able to say before there is silence again.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, trying to bring back the memory of being pressed against him just moments ago. It's there, warming my belly and tugging at the places at the small of my back that link up with the center of my body where my center of gravity lies. It will anchor me to the earth in his absence. When I open my eyes again I am confronted by the silence and the emptiness of the suddenly expansive apartment and it's unfamiliar corners. I want to be home again, forgetting that home has just walked out the door.

The tears don't come until I go into Owen's room where I find him curled around a pillow and his favorite alligator tucked under an arm. They break the dam and cascade once I lay myself down against the wall with one arm tucked around my son where I can feel him breathe and be there if he should wake up and remember that his father is gone. I make hardly any noise when I cry myself to sleep, but allow it to happen because the unspent grief will consume me if I don't allow it release.

* * *

Order has returned to my brain when the morning comes around and I am awoken by taps on my nose. Owen grins when I open my sore eyes and I can't help but smile at him. We won't say anything about missing James, or wishing he were back. It goes without saying that we both feel a little lonelier without him around. But it has been just the two of many times before so we will get by just fine.

We make plans to go to the hospital where Owen will work on his notebooks for school and I can hold Sadie. The privacy of our room with her has been a blessing where the whole family can stay without fear of bothering others. Owen wants to pack his things first, chatting the whole time about what he is going to teach Sadie and how she will be the smartest girl that ever was, while I busy myself with digging up cereal for us.

We are halfway through our breakfast when someone knocks on the door and it's Sam Wilson, surprising us with a visit. Owen launches into excitement over the appearance of his friend and "flying partner".

"Sam, I thought you would go with them," I say and beckon him inside the place before giving him a quick hug, "is everything all right?"

"Fine, fine," he answers and flashes me that reassuring smile that always sets me at ease.

"Someone had to stay back and keep an eye on things." He seems a little embarrassed by what he's said but I don't chastise him for it. I'm a little unsettled by the thought that he was staying only for Owen and I, that maybe James asked him to, but I decide to let it go.

"I came to see if you were busy," he moves the conversation forward. "There's someone in the med wing who wanted to speak to you."

I glance at Owen who watches the two of us with interest, edge of his seat with excitement at whatever grand scene he thinks is going to play out before his eyes.

"And you're here to hang out with my son," I tease him. "We were going to go to the hospital to see Sadie and do school. But if this won't take long then we can go after."

"Have him bring his stuff and I'll help while you work," Sam says and turn to Owen. "Gather your kit, wingman! Time to go!"

While I work. I don't much like the sound of that, but it's best to get it over with at this point.

The medical wing of the Tower looks much the same as the last time I saw it, except this time it lacks the sprays of bullet casings and fallen bodies from the last night that I was here. I push those memories deep into the back of my mind and focus on the tasks at hand. Sam leads us down the line of privacy curtains towards the end where a large section has been curtained off. He whistles as he goes and I realize it's to signal our approach as much as anything else because whe. We're only about ten feet away a man steps out from behind the curtain and stands feet should width apart, ready to receive us.

I don't recognize him and instantly I feel like I would have if I'd ever seen him before. He is tall, broad, but lean in a controlled and efficient way. Every movement he makes, from lifting one hand up to check his watch, to the long sweeps of the room with his eyes are meant to conserve energy and are not wasteful. He's wearing gloves, strange for being inside, and a carefully sculpted goatee that could rival Tony Stark's.

"Good morning, Dr. Horowitz," he says in a deep voice that almost booms even though he is speaking low and soft. "It's very good of you to come. We could do with your assistance."

He reaches out a hand and I take it hesitantly, my palm smoothing over the soft leather of his gloves as we shake hands.

"Forgive my manners," he says after I let go. "My name is Dr. Strange. Dr. Stephen Strange."

"Of course," I manage and he smiles. Sam gives me a thumbs up when I turn towards him and he steers Owen back towards the elevator, chatting and engaging the six year old who is oblivious to my situation,

"Please, Doctor," Strange says and pulls back one of the curtains so I can walk into the darkened corner, lit barely by the ambient light from the displays and machines. My breath catches in my throat and I feel a pang of nausea.

Morgan le Fay is lying strapped to a bed, almost un recognizable with a shaved head and a shrunken body that is has begun to waste away. The machines around her click and whir, and IV drips fluids and most likely heavy sedatives into her arm and she seems oblivious to what is going on.

"What the fuck," I breathe out, not sure if I am ready for what will be asked of me.


	11. Chapter 11

My brain struggles to reconcile the woman I see before me with the one who haunts the corners of my mind. Le Fay is a diminished person, a shadow of life lying in the bed and kept under the waves with medicine pumped into her veins. I take in as much of the scene as I can, from the assortment of instruments and machines that surround the bed to the line of medications on a rolling tray that is near me.

Dr. Strange walks around the side of the bed and picks up a metal chart holder and starts flipping sheets of paper over to reach the information he's after. He checks the readings on the machines and scratches a few notes on the chart. I wonder how long they've had her here, how long she's been kept like this and for what purpose. I search inside me for the pangs of anger and compassion that should be coming at seeing another person in such a condition, but there is just the all consuming numbness. Still, something about this set up feels wrong.

"How long has she been up here?" I ask.

"Two days," he answers. "We've been prepping her for the procedure." He places the metal chart back in its holder and checks the leads from the heart rate monitor that snake up her tunic and then under her collar to attach to stickies on her chest. The beeps of her heartbeat lay a rhythm to my thoughts and the jumble of questions that are lining up in my efforts to understand the situation.

"What is this?" I venture to ask and get a small flick up of Stephen Strange's eyes in response. He seems to measure out the information in his head for what he will tell me, the first clue that I should be wary. He is messing with an EEG machine, twisting dials and checking the ream of paper that feeds into it for giving readouts of brain activity. This would account for the need to shave her head, to make it easier to fit the setup of detectors across her scalp. My uneasiness continues to grow.

"It's an interrogation," he finally says. "Well, of sorts."

"But why this? They've already tried interrogating her and she's given them all she's going to give."

He's come over to my side of the space and is double checking the small vials of medication on the rolling tray. A small row of syringes lies next to them, at the ready for his purpose.

"The procedure will go deeper," he says. "You and I are going to extract the pieces of information that we need. We are done giving her an option."

"How?" I ask cautiously, my stomach starting to twist in anticipation of his response. What he's told me so far has given me chills and I rub my hands up my arms a little to give them some warmth.

"We're going to use a dose of sodium pentothal to relax her and break down her defenses, making her mind more accessible. I will go in and find what we're after. I need you to monitor her brain activity and make sure that she doesn't die during the procedure."

My blood runs cold in my limbs and I get a sick feeling in my middle. How is he 'going in'? I quickly wrack my brain for any procedure that I know of that could be behind what he means, but nothing comes to mind. I can't imagine how someone would pull answers from someone who is essentially in a drug induced sleep. Even after everything that's happened, I don't agree with this. There has to be another way.

"So, let me see if I'm following you. You're going to drug her and somehow take what you need," I repeat back to him. "Where is the fairness in that? Does Steve Rogers know about this 'procedure' of yours?" I ask but I already know the answer. There is a reason that Strange has called me here now, that he waited until James and Steve had gone to begin this twisted experiment.

"The order came from above his level," he says, starting to sound annoyed at all my questions. "At his core, Steve Rogers is an optimist, and things don't always work out the way we want them to when we ask people to choose to do the right thing. So when they choose wrong, we need to go in and make it right."

"What if I don't want to help?" I cross my arms and take a step back, feeling the curtain brush against my back. The gesture feels childish and I know the futility of it. It reminds me of the brief moment of objection I'd had when Steve and Natasha had first brought me in to help bring James back from the edge. There is a quiet calm in Strange's face and when he leans in close to me, and puts a hand on my shoulder, the corners of his mouth twist into the kind of smile you'd give to a there's a rush of something through my body and that's when I know that I don't have a choice. If I want to see the end of this, I will have to walk the road no matter the twists and turns.

"Sit here," he says and pushes a wheeled stool over in my direction, right up to the machines where I will have a clear view of their displays. "Let me know if she starts crashing. She'll be under some duress and we can push her pretty far but we can't lose her." La Fey's brain activity is calm, serene almost, and I watch the small needle ticking along the piece of paper on the EEG. Her breaths come even, quiet, and for a second there is a flicker inside me what I realize is an apology. A small 'I'm sorry' that will go left unsaid but that I at least acknowledge. I am not so far gone in my hatred of her that I will withhold an apology at the mistreatment.

While I ease myself down onto the stool, Dr. Strange measures a dose of the sodium pentothal and administers it through the IV drip in La Fey's arm. Then he moves so that he is standing in the gap between the end of her bed and the curtain barrier, right behind her head. He slowly removes his gloves and lays them carefully on the corner of the mattress, smoothing out the black material before settling himself back to his patient. He puts a hand on either side of her head, his palms over her temples, and his eyes slip closed. There's no contact between the two of them, at least he isn't pressing his palms into the side of her head, but the definite feeling that something is happening sneaks over me.

I'm hypnotized by what's happening. Every so often I glance over at the monitors, at the EEG needle ticking away the brain activity, but everything remains calm. Strange's expression changes every so slightly while he stands there with his hands positioned. His eyebrows twitch, come together slightly, go still for long stretches, but then will crease again. Like he's reacting to things he's seeing, discovering, uncovering. The minutes stretch out and the silence drapes over us, broken only by the beeps of the monitors and my own breath that feels like it's rattling in my chest.

I don't know how much time has passed when my reverie is broken by first the increased heart rate from the monitor. I look over at it, watching as the blips get faster and faster, the beeps more insistent. Suddenly the EEG needle adds it's own erratic pulses to the song, warning alarms begin in my head and when I look at Strange his face is twisted with effort and his fingers are trembling. Then La Fey begins to twitch, first in her feet, toes flexing back and forth and her hands next twisting against the restraints that keep in her locked to the bed. Her mouth opens slightly and closes again, her face breaking through the sedative and reacting to whatever has invaded her. The two are fighting, locked in some kind of battle that is breaking them in two.

"Stop," I say as her heart races and she's pulling harder now, but kept in place by Strange's hands and her bonds. Her eyes are fluttering and I don't want them to open.

"Hey!" I shout and leave my stool. Strange doesn't seem to hear me even though I keep calling to him and slip around the side of the bed while the alarms accompany my pleas for him to stop. By this time La Fey's mouth is caught open in a silent scream and her whole body twists against the onslaught. I can tell that Strange is struggling to maintain the hold he has and I use it to my advantage. Not knowing how to break it, I shove him with as much strength as I can muster and he is thrown to the side enough to break his spell and stumble a little away from us.

"She's crashing," I say quickly as his expression turns to rage and he starts toward me. I point at the monitors and he sees the slowly decreasing pace of her heart, the EEG recording of her brain waves going off the charts. He seems to come back to himself, stops his advance on me, and takes a couple deep breaths to regain control of himself. Morgan la Fey lies still again. She's coming down from the height and her body is slow to release the tension. Her hands keep clenching every so often.

"What did you see?" I ask quietly.

Strange looks at me like he pities me, a faint smile on his face.

"You can go now," he nearly whispers. He stands up a little straighter and reaches for his gloves again, pulling them on and then smoothing his hair. Putting himself back into order.

"What did you see?" I ask again, pushing him with my tone but feeling already the block he's put up and knowing he won't answer.

Instead of giving me what I want, he reaches out for my arm to grab hold of me but I duck away from him.

"Go," he says and I can tell by his tone that if he has to ask me one more time then I will regret it. I move back and then step outside the curtain. I make myself walk through the medical wing, measuring my steps until I get out into the hallway and find myself breaking into a run. My steps echo down the linoleum hallway and I can't run very far, my body gives out long before I want it to, and then I'm sliding down the wall trying to catch my breath and wishing that James were here to scoop me up again in his arms. To deal with this ugliness, whatever it is, and take it off my hands.

He doesn't appear though. Doesn't come to help me through this turmoil inside me. I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, trying calm down. Somehow I make it happen.

In the days that follow my bizarre encounter with Dr. Strange, I force a routine into our lives again. Owen and I spend the mornings doing school and our afternoons visiting Sadie. She's growing, losing tubes and machines by the wayside of passed benchmarks and check-ups. They say she'll be able to come home with us soon. My heart sinks a little when they tell me this. But life goes on. We press forward.

A lifeline comes in the middle of the night, extended out to me from sharp raps on the apartment door when I'm settled on the couch reading after Owen has gone to sleep. It's Natasha, asking me to come with her, that she has a surprise for me. We walk side-by-side in silence, our footsteps echoing off the walls and seeming amplified in the quiet. She's hurrying, well as much as she can, her long strides and fluid grace quickly outstripping my still recovering stamina. I have to take two steps to her one and it's exhausting.

"Where are we going?" I manage to get out between breaths and she gives me a sly smile over her shoulder. Whatever mischief Natasha is up to, that smile tells me that I will soon find out but not a minute before she means for me to. I have no reason not to trust her. Over the last few years she's kept in contact and made an effort to be part of our lives. Half of her is deadly and controlled grace, but the other half is a wonderfully silly woman who likes inside jokes and making other people laugh. I sense her utter devotion to those she has decided to trust and find myself lucky to call her a friend.

She takes me to an area of the Tower where their team spends most of its time working. Working being a loose term sometimes for the almost endless information searches and brainstorming sessions that go along with being superheroes. This place includes some workspace for Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, whom Nat has affectionately dubbed the "Science Bros", and a bank of communications equipment and supercomputers along one wall. She leads me over to a terminal and hands me a headset, waiting till I place it on my head before pressing a button on the touchscreen and part of the monitor goes green, signalling a connection.

There's a small burst of a static that settles out quickly and then a voice comes in through the line, small at first, but I grab hold of it and press the headset closer to my ears to drink every nuance of that cadence.

"Hello?" it's James, questioning, searching for the person on the other end of the line.

"It's me!" I say, the first thing popping into my mind and spilling out of my mouth. It's a giddy feeling that overwhelms me and I am suddenly grinning at Natasha who backs away to find herself a chair to settle into while James and I talk.

"Al," he says and I can hear the smile in his voice. It's the same one that always comes when he is rolling over in the middle of the night and searching for me. But this time there is the undercurrent of fatigue and I wonder when the last time he slept was.

"How are you?" I say. A short pause and I can tell he's setting out what he will tell me. I wait patiently.

"We're fine," he answers.

"You sound tired." I say, it seems safe to voice these things, even though I'm sure this is a secure connection it can't hurt to be careful.

"It's not bad," he says and there's that warmth again, the reassuring words I always imagine him telling me even though this is the first time I've ever talked to him while on a mission. That strikes me all of a sudden and I glance over at Natasha who is casually flipping through some papers but whose situational awareness is always keenly active. What is going on? I think to myself.

"How's Sadie? And Owen?" James asks, abruptly switching topics away from himself and prompting me to talk. I give in the request to fill the precious minutes with details about our children, trying the whole time to keep the tears back and calm the tremor in my voice that intensifies as I go on. It's a comfort to him to hear about them but it tears at me to think of him out there putting himself on the line while fighting for an end to the horror that has followed him all this time.

"They're telling me Sadie can come home next week if she passes the next couple of tests," I say finally, pressing my thumb and forefinger together and against my forehead to concentrate my thoughts, calming myself before asking the hard stuff. "Will you be home then?"

A long pause. I've caught him in something and it starts to twist in my stomach that there are things I'm not meant to know right now. Not that he keeps from me because the two of us have agreed to it, but things that are being kept back because someone else has decided I should be kept in the dark.

"We'll see," is his final admission. The silence spools out and I am more acutely aware of the distance between us than ever before. Not just at this very moment, but really the distance between the two lives we have been keeping. One where he is home and present with us, and the other where he is needed by his friends.

"Will you tell them I love and I miss them?"

"When are you coming back?" I ask quickly, reacting quickly to the rush in my head.

"Alina," he says, his voice smooth and calm trying to wash over me like water trying to soothe. "I can't answer that."

"Are you coming back?" I can't help myself.

"Of course." But his words aren't as solid as they have been before. Like he doubts himself. This is when I feel the panic.

"Tell them I love them," he steers it back to the kids but I just nod.

"Be safe," I start to say over and over again, nodding my head and keeping my eyes resolutely closed against facing this reality.

"I will," he repeats after every iteration.

Over and over again, be safe/I will. Eventually it peters out into the silence again and I can hear him sigh through the headset.

"I have to go," he is resigned.

I let the last words he hears from me be the same ones I always say, the same routine and reassurance for us both that I love him, that we will be here when he comes back, that he doesn't have to worry about anything but coming home alive.

"Be safe," I whisper. I love you, echoes in the pause before the line goes blank again.

For a moment I let it settle inside me, wait for the tears or the desire to fold into myself until I disappear. But as the twist in my stomach begins to loosen while I stare at the monitor, now idle, what I feel is completely empty. I am like scorched earth, dry and brittle in the wind but enduring nonetheless. I close my eyes for a long time and just let the silence fill me.


	12. Chapter 12

I sit for a long time and let this new, quiet calm settle over me. I hadn't expected it, to be perfectly honest with myself, to be so seemingly at ease with saying goodbye after the initial rush of panic had worked it's way through me. James' words echo in my head and I chase them around into the corners of my mind to catch them to be stored for however long I will need them before he comes back. I stare at the blank computer screens, the white noise easing into the forefront of my consciousness and pushing out all other thoughts. Effectively, I let myself zone out. It's a pleasant moment for me to savor the fading echo of the conversation I'd just had.

It takes Natasha clearing her throat before I come back to myself. She's watching me with no hint in her face of reacting to what she's overheard and I wonder if she has already slipped into that state of preparedness for a line of questioning from me. There's a calm in her features that is masking the readiness inside her. I don't think I can out-question her, especially not when I consider how tired I am. And drained. So instead, I decide to play on what I think is our friendship and see if she will be honest with me.

"Where are they going?" I ask. She crosses her arms and settles herself back in her chair with a little sigh, but never takes her eyes from mine.

"They're crossing the Void," She answers.

"What does that mean?" I say, and while I appreciate that she gave me a direct answer, I don't feel like it's complete.

"It's a division between two worlds," she continues. "They're going across to find the heart of Hydra and kill it. End the cutting off heads, just go straight for the source."

A little bit of feeling is returning to my limbs, a familiar curiosity over new information.

"What else is there?" I ask, figuring that my request at directness has worked thus far, but I can see in the slight uptick of the corner of her mouth that this is the information being withheld. I would get frustrated if I had the energy for it.

"I can't tell you," she says as gently as she can. "It was Barnes' decision. He assessed the risks and knew that telling you everything, even before he left, might do more harm than good."

"Are they coming back?" I ask abruptly. Her eyes shift a little and it's a kinder version of pity I see. I hate what it insinuates, that despite her feeling like I needed his reassuring words, I am not able to handle the whole truth when I request it.

"They have every intention to," she says, blatantly withholding. But this in and of itself is a concession on her part to at least try to answer my question without actually answering it. Tap dancing around truths. I can't help myself when I laugh a little at what she tells me. It's like every fiber in my being wants me to scream at her that there was no mistaking the hesitation in his voice, at the way he faltered and couldn't answer me. But she must know.

"I'm sorry but that's not helping me feel any better," I admit.

"It wasn't meant to," she says and she doesn't smile. "Would it really help, to know everything at this point? Do you want to carry that with you while you're dealing with everything else here?"

"He didn't even ask," I snap back. "We've always agreed before, that there are certain things I didn't want to know. But we would always find a way to define those boundaries and agree on them. The difference is that this time he didn't even ask. He just left me here."

I get up from the chair, the anger dripping out of my body as quickly as it had come on. She doesn't try to stop me, something I'm grateful for because I don't want to fight with her anymore. I don't want to be in the same room with her either. My mind screams at me to run, to get away, to scoop up Owen and leave. But I don't forget that it's the middle of the night and I am still weak from my surgery. And I especially don't want to admit that this is probably the best place for me to be at the moment.

Despite the protests in my body and my brain I have to walk slowly through the Tower while I settle on one tiny lightbulb in the back of my head that could be a way out of the uncertainty. There is still one person, who could give me any answers at this point, one person who might be willing to spill it all even though it might destroy me.

The medical wing is quiet, peaceful, lit by the ambient light from the windows and a series of tracks of lights that illuminate paths around the wing. The overheads are shut off during the night to keep a sense of routine but I move through the semi-darkness with the assured footsteps of memory guiding me. It hasn't been long since I've been back here anyways, I just hope she is still here.

I find Morgan le Fay still strapped to her bed in the curtained off area in the back of the medical wing. Midnight on the wing has never been a busy time and I spend a few uninterrupted minutes watching her sleeping form. No, maybe not sleeping, caught again somewhere in a drugged haze. Kept just under the surface of the water with the steady drip of medications through an IV. No one knows I'm here, the halls were empty on my trip up here, and for a few minutes I let myself entertain the idea of unplugging her machines. Or slipping a needle full of air into her bloodstream to drop an embolism into her brain. Or slamming an overdose of god-knows-what into her. The impulse to end her doesn't last long. I still need her, so doing her in wouldn't do me much good at all.

But I can't bring myself to wake her up. Not just yet. Maybe I want her to know more of this sensation of losing so much time, of sleeping through parts of your life and waking to find a completely new reality surrounding you. My mind drifts to James, who must feel like he woke up from a deep sleep the day he came back to the world. The day that he was yanked from the haze of the Soldier and saw his friend beneath his fist. I think of the map we made of his memories and my place among them, of the life we'd managed to build together in the intervening years and how it was all hanging in the balance again because of this person in front of me.

Would he have gone off again if Morgan le Fay hadn't attacked us? If I was still carrying Sadie safely inside me would we still be driven apart? Maybe she had gotten what she wanted all along. Separated like this we were weaker, I could admit that to myself right now, that I needed James nearby to prop me up when I was despairing the most. I let out my held breath in a long sigh, disturbing only the still air and heavy silence immediately around me. My head is starting to hurt. To throb from chasing my thoughts around and from the lateness of the hour.

Morgan le Fay can wait, lying in her bed there is little evidence that she will be up and about any time soon. I decide to leave, my questions suspended for the time being. Besides, I need to rest and recover some strength before I face her. But I can't take too long, time is slipping through my fingers like wisps of smoke, no matter how much I grasp at it.


End file.
